You know, coffee is a truly beautiful thing. A hell of a thing, too. I started on coffee in community college, while my friends the Davis Trio would brew it in the morning to wake up. Before I left for Chicago, they were kind enough to let me live on their couch for a time. A generous tradition of poets.

In Chicago, my best friend and roommate Kevie clued me in to the divinity of espresso. That it was a treat to be cherished. I couldn’t taste any differences, but the cups were smaller, more efficient.

I never really liked brewed beans. Tea was more to my tastes.

When I slung smoothies, the hardass bosschick taught me about iced coffees for summer. That it was ultimately the easiest way to drink it, since it was never going to burn your mouth, and such a handy straw. She was clinically depressed, and convinced her boyfriend, my boyfriend, everyone’s boyfriends to move to Seattle, with or without us.

In Seattle, there are more coffee shops than Christians. They have post-barista forms of coffee: aeropress, french press, cold press, chemex, vacuum, and something called hario v60. And espresso. If you are lucky, maybe even drip.

But, I GO TO STARBUCKS EVERY GODDAMN DAY.

Why? It’s not because the coffee. Luckily, Homie taught me that all the drinks they serve (besides the hazelnut soy latte) are distasteful diabetes shakes. That was back when she was on payroll and our gang, on the daily, busted a hang at the ‘bucks next to Bike Shop Boys. No, the drinks are verifiably shit.

I go to coffee because it’s a universal common ground. (Haw!) Everyone expects everyone else to drink coffee, whether you like coffee or not. And I go to Starbucks because I estimate that I receive near to 5% of my income in Starbucks giftcards. Because I can pay with my phone and not tip and never even have to say the name of my fluffy-ass drink because it’s already sharpied across my reusable Starbucks cup. And because all the baristas have health insurance and medical weed, so they’re relatively pleasant at6:45am. Sometimes they give you treat receipts to entice you to come back for a second trip to dialysis.

Sometimes they don’t judge you when you laugh and crumple up said afternoon treat coupon, throw it at the trash bin, miss, because you have no aim, pick out up and covertly sneak it into your pocket.

Sometimes they are even kind enough to pretend they didn’t just see you this morning, chugging syrup and belching cholesterol. But, it depends on the barista.